Schematic Of Terror
by pazu7
Summary: Who killed Massud Ramad? Why? His death and a series of bizzarre murders lead an unlikely pair of investigators into the underworld of politics and dirty deals that drive Rouge City. Their investigation reveals a horrifying secret.
1. Chapter 1

**_The Lengthy And Completely Optional Introduction:_**

_This story was started years ago, 2003 I think, as a sort of weekly writing exercise. I'd try to write each segment in one sitting without any forethought about where I was going or even any overall storyline. It was fun to write that way, introducing new characters on a whim and jumping heedlessly into a scene without any idea where it might end up. But using that approach I wound up creating a labyrinth of plot points that I had to try and work my way out of each week, and a host of characters whose interplay was uncertain and sometimes forced. Fortunately, at around chapter three, I introduced Erik Tigue, a character that became pivotal to the story and provided the stabilizing effect I needed to go forward. So I am now hoping to revive this serial by rewriting the old chapters and then adding new ones. I will try to post the rewritten original chapters one a week or so until I have to start writing new ones and hopefully, by then, people will be following the story (fingers crossed). The advantage now is that I know the through story and can work towards that end. Plus I think I write a little better than before, so I can smooth over some of the dodgy bits. I also had to change some of the locations to make it a little more geographically accurate. I ripped these locations from Google Maps and I have no idea of their altitude, or whether or not they'd be submerged under the risen rivers. _

_I would like to explain that, in my stories, I don't present Mecha as indistinguishable from humans in appearance or in their thinking. The rare ones that can pass as humans are usually 'special projects', like David for example. There is another 'special' project in this story who I don't want to give away yet. Others are illegal machines that have had their 'Asimovian' restraints bypassed in order to allow them to attack humans if necessary. This allows the machines to be used as bodyguards and, occasionally, hit-men. A Mecha that cannot commit violence on a human would be useless in this job, and a body-guard that could not pass as human would be a dead giveaway. Therefore it would be absolutely necessary for an illegally programmed Mecha to pass as a human. There are other restraints on Mecha manufacture and programming that will be elaborated as the story goes forward. These are generally politically motivated for there is a struggle between working-class humans and the Mecha who threaten to replace them._

_Further, I see the human process of reasoning and emotional reaction as generally un-programmable, and when a complicated Machine like David is created, these programmed emotional abilities have unforeseeable effects on their brains. This is where I see the seed of the Supermecha, an almost inadvertent side-effect of sentient response programming. But this story takes place long before that evolutionary leap in artificial processing. In this time, just years after the disappearance of David, there is much hostility towards Mecha, much of it justified, much of it not. _

_I should also point out that this story, unlike my others, uses coarse language and exploits the occasional sexual theme. _

_That's probably enough of an introduction, eh? _

**_Schematic of Terror_**  
a serial by  
Bryan Harrison  
utilizing the environment and  
character concepts established in the  
Stephen Spielberg  
film  
Artificial Intelligence

**Chapter 1  
Where it all began …**

-1-

It was just after 1:30 am on New Years day under the crystalline starry sky of the inland. A solitary cruiser was making it's way along a quiet stretch of private road that bypassed the submerged sections of the old King's Highway and wound through the shanty forest south of Haddonfield where, three years earlier, a roaming Flesh Fair had fallen from the public grace. Inside the cruiser Massud Ramad was telling his wife, for the fourth time, to listen to what he saying. The man seemed quite oblivious to the fact that he had been the only talking since the couple had left a party in Shadow Creek twenty minutes earlier, and that his voice had been raised sufficiently for her, and perhaps anyone in the next lane to hear. Since they were alone on the road there'd be no way to test that theory, but Mariane Ramad was certain it was a possibility. Her husband shook his finger in her face to make his point clear, although it only served more to distract her from his words.

Massud misunderstood the apprehension in her face to mean she did not understand the obvious point that he'd been trying to make about the Martin's, the people whose party they'd left abruptly when he had taken insult from a flippant remark their host had made. But Mariane was not concerned about Derek Martin's inappropriate sense of humor. Her apprehension was derived from the fact that her irate husband seemed to be completely ignoring the road.

"And furthermore," Massud roared, "who is Derek to talk like that to me? If we're so far beneath his standards, then why did he invite us? Huh? Tell me that, Mariane!" She had no response, but Massud didn't wait for one anyway. "At least I _earn_ my money!" he continued. "At least I perform a service for this city. I don't just sit on my ass getting fat on other peoples money!"

While they might not have been among the most well-heeled to attend the festivities, the Ramads could easily count themselves among the coddled classes; wealthy by any standard. What made the Ramad family unique was that they had achieved that status by walking the straight and narrow. Massud knew this fact made him a subject of rumor and mistrust. Certain members of the Council felt endangered by the presence of an honest man in their midst. This was what he was trying to explain to her.

It was just after his fifth "and further more…" that they both saw a flash of light at the side of the road and immediately felt the front end of the cruiser buckle. They were screaming when the wall of the service exit smacked into the windshield at 105kph.

The impact was deafening. Then there was silence.

Mariane awoke with a start. It took her a moment to realize she was not in her bed but, somehow, lying in the middle of a roadway. But that realization only led to another puzzle: how had she come to be here? She pondered this unsuccessfully for a moment, but it wasn't until she the tried to sit up that the memory came back in a flash of pain and nausea. She lay helplessly with this horrifying realization, having no idea how much time had passed since the crash, but knowing that the taste in her mouth was blood. A sick feeling came over her and it only grew worse when she realized that she did not know where Massud was. Then she heard him moaning somewhere near. In the cold blackness of the night, though, she could not see him. She tried to call out, but pain assaulted every point in her face at even the slightest movement of her mouth. She was hurt… badly.

Then she saw a sight that quelled her growing panic. His frame was just a shadow against the embankment of the road, but it was definitely a man she saw, walking towards them. In her excitement and the delirium of her injuries, she didn't ponder where the man might have come from and why he would be walking along the center of the road on the outskirts of the city in the middle of the night. These things were unimportant to her. They were rescued!

But her spirits quickly dropped and she realized that there must have been some trick of the light, for now, it seemed, the man was quickly walking away. Didn't he see them? Surely he must have seen the accident and the mangled cruiser the road.

She tried to yell, to call to him, to shame him for leaving the scene of an accident, to remind him it was against the law. But pain flared in her jaw and she could only moan as the shadow retreated down the roadway.

A moment later, however, Mariane was glad she had not been able to beckon the man that was hurrying away from the scene of their accident. With sudden terrifying clarity she saw him as he crossed the road and hurried into the darkness. For one brief moment he was clearly silhouetted against the distant glow of the city and then revealed in the stark halogen glare of a roadlamp.

The sight made Mariane scream until she passed out from the pain.

-2-

The woman was still in agony. That was plainly obvious. The paramedic ran another booster of anesthetics into her arm and was grateful to see her relax. But freed from the pain from her broken jaw, the woman swore and then called out for her husband.

"He's in the unit right behind us," the young paramedic said in an assuring tone. She didn't add that the unit that carried him was no longer in a hurry. The woman would find that out when the time was right.

"Can you hold still for me now?" the paramedic asked. "We are almost at the hospital. You're going to be fine! I just want you to…" But the horrified gaze the woman set on her silenced her.

"He was dead!" the woman said through an almost ruined mouth.

The paramedic didn't have any response for this. There was no way that she could know, was there? But something in the woman's eyes suggested that she was not referring to her husband. It had to be delirium.

"Take it easy now," the paramedic said. "You've had a terrifying experience but everything will be fine now." She didn't want to put the woman to sleep; she needed her to be conscious in the emergency room. But the woman refused to calm down.

"Don't patronize me!" she yelled. "I know what I saw! He… he…" she stopped for a moment and her eyes grew puzzled. "He didn't have a head. I saw it! He didn't have a head!"

"Ok. Ok. You're just going to do more damage to your jaw," the paramedic said her before putting her to sleep. She'd deal with the emergency room issue when they got there.

-3-

Cherry Hill wasn't in the busiest of the five regions the State Police had to deal with that night. But you wouldn't have been able to tell by looking at the station. The detox-tank was filled with people who wouldn't volunteer to a neutralizing shot. So they were stuck for the night, or at least until their wristband changed color. Magna-tagged against the wall, away from their Orga counterparts, a line of malfunctioning Mecha struggled against their captivity, looping robotic phrases and twisting in awkward postures. It would have been a funny spectacle if they weren't such a pain this time of year. All around the room, quiet stern-faced men and women in tight blue uniforms went about their various tasks, used to the chaos.

A balding man with an impatient brow and permanent scowl etched on his face, eyed the bustle with obvious disdain. "Fuk-it-all!" he said. As if there wasn't enough to deal with without the stupid fiber-heads blowing chips or whatever the hell went wrong with them. Precinct Captain Rachman Davich stood in the doorway of his office not wanting to leave the sanctuary it offered. Behind him a quiet game of holographic chess waited. Before him the New Years Eve mess was getting worse by the minute. It was a mess that would not go away without his effort. He turned and yelled "Save" to his chess game, which immediately folded itself up and shut down. Time for work. "Fuk-it-all!" Davich swore again.

"We heard you the first time Boss," Spacer said as she passed by. The muscular woman had a rowdy Orga boy in tow. The kid looked like one of the mainland neo-nazis, black tights on sickly white skin. And this one had spikes protruding from his shoulders. Davich followed, enthralled, stepping out of the range of a tagged Mecha that had started swinging its arms wildly, ranting some digital gibberish.

"Hey! Is that shit real?" Davich asked with a low whistle. The kid didn't respond, just fixed Davich with dark scowl that the man returned quickly.

Spacer cuffed the kid to a post in the center of the room. It was safer here than in the tank. The brat was obviously a bruiser, just waiting for a chance to take his frustrations out on someone who wasn't a cop. Nobody was stupid enough to try a cop, especially one like Spacer.

"Yeah, Boss. It's real alright," Spacer responded when the kid was secured. "Damn implants!" she said. The brat had his eyes downcast. He couldn't have been older than fifteen… sixteen tops. Spacer made a sound that might have been pity or disgust; it was hard to tell. "Little shit and his pals ripped up some shanties outside Haddonfield. Almost killed a couple of vags in the process. The others were quicker, got lost in the woods. But they'll show up."

Davich shook his head. "Oh yeah. Tough guy, eh? Beating on vagabonds that probably ain't eaten in weeks. Scaarrry!" he mocked. "How in the fuck do you sleep with those things on anyway!" he asked eyeing the spikes. "That shit is like… permanent, right?" The kid just rolled his eyes and looked away. Davich lean close and caught the boy's eyes. "Ya know, one of these days you might want to get a job," he said with the hard-edged sincerity of a cop who really believed in his rhetoric. "And your employer might not like the idea that you could accidentally decapitate one of his customers." But he could tell by the feral sneer the kid shot him that he was wasting his time. Another one for the stasis someday. His waved his hand dismissively and grabbed Spacer by the elbow.

"I'm glad you're back," Davich whispered conspiratorially, pulling his lieutenant aside, "I need to get some of these tranc-heads and drunken clowns boosted with detox and outta here. I got no room for this shit tonight."

Spacer knew the routine. Get them into the Interrogation room and vid them saying 'ok' to anything. Edit in whatever questions you want later. Just ask them any question that they would say yes to, and then pump some detox in 'em. If anybody bitches later, they got the agreement on record. All nice and legal… sort of.

"Yeah, Boss," She said with a wink. "I'll get someone on it. Anderson should know the routine."

"Good," Davich said. "Oh! And get rid of these goddamned Mecha. I don't give a shit if they got licenses or no. If you can't locate the owner, you just hand 'em over to Johnson's freak show for all I care. Just get them outta my…"

"Captian Davich!" a voice called from across the noisy room. Davich turned to see a young city cop craning his thin neck as he scanned the busy room. Local kid. Whoever was looking for him obviously didn't want it on the record or they would have used his cell. This couldn't be good.

He turned to Spacer and sighed. "Think I can slip outta here before this pencil-neck finds…"

"Oh there you are. Sir," the pencil-neck said from behind Davich. "We have a situation at The Lady, sir. I was told to ask specifically for you."

"Fuk-it-all!"

-4-

The Lady wasn't one of his favorite places, but then he really didn't have any favorite places. Maybe home was ok… once in a while. Or perhaps the Precinct lounge at noon. Some might find it rather pathetic that a man of his years and office would prefer hanging out with a bunch of street troopers over lunch rather than being at home with his 'family'. But then no one really understood Rachman Davich. In spite of appearances and rumors, the man didn't drink, so the clubs were out. Even after all the shit he'd survived, he preferred to be sober. And even though his status would make it easy to take advantage of ambitious departmental climbers, he didn't fuck around. It had been a long time since he and his wife had really been in love, but they had both been cursed by a traditional sense of duty. So affairs were out. And divorce was out. So were kids. The Child Licensing Authority had long ago determined the instable relationship the Davich's shared. But a few Christmas' passed Rachman he'd made _that_ last one up to his wife, as best he could. She was happy enough, he guessed, but admitted to himself it was not high on his list of concerns.

Davich loved the youngsters; the new troopers, the ones still learning the ropes. _They_ were his kids. He loved to hear their talk, their boasting and challenging, the unlikely and downright impossible stories, the screw-ups and the successes. It was like old times, like when he had been a fit young recruit, not the balding overweight desk jockey his rank had turned him into. Once a day he could shoot the shit and be one of them for a while. Well, at least until lunch was over. Then he was 'Boss', again.

He swore as they walked into the glaring lights and noise of the Lady of Lourdes Medical Complex, known generally as The Lady. Everywhere he looked there was fresh misery. Blood. Puke. Starry eyed tranc-heads, and even more drunken assholes slouched in waiting chairs or laying on the floor in puddles of unidentifiable bodily fluids. The one thing you didn't see, apart from an occasional aide pushing a wheelchair along a crowded aisle, was Mecha. It was a small favor in his eyes.

"Hey, Spacer," Davich said, thrusting his chin at a group of transients huddled in a corner across the room. "Those the vags your boys cut up?" he asked.

Spacer glanced in that direction. The vags looked beaten and bruised. "Probably," She replied nonchalantly and turned away. Davich harrumphed and followed the pencil-necked kid that had come to get him, wondering at the secrecy of the whole affair

The woman had her own room. That meant something. Only people who 'mattered' could get a private space on a crazy night like this. She was pretty messed up too. Her face was wrapped around in bandages and coils of tubes ran from the casing. Good Lord, Davich thought. Was she alive in there?

"Rachman?" The bandaged mess said. Davich immediately recognized the voice. Spacer had never seen the man's face go pale before.

"Mariane?" Davich blurted. Why hadn't someone told him? "Mariane! What the hell happened to you?" Davich yelled.

"Massud is dead!" the bandaged woman muttered urgently though her ceramic mask.

Davich received these words like a punch to the gut. One of the few good men this damn city had ever known! Gone? "Oh Fuck!" he said, oblivious to the annoyed glances from passing nurses. He bent over and placed his hands on his knees, as if a sudden weight had fallen on his shoulders. With Massud gone the Commerce Council would be run by that self-serving prick Grainer.

"I had them get you, Rachman." Mariane said slowly. "I needed to see you and didn't want anyone to know. We need… we need to act fast."

Davich understood immediately. Too many people wanted her husband out of the way; powerful people who had probably had one too many dirty deals exposed by the man's uprightness. Without her saying a word, Davich knew that she wanted him to do his own investigation, that the findings of any official inquiry could not be trusted.

Mariane tried to sit up and lean close to Davich, but the pain stopped her. Davich leaned close to her instead. "I saw something out there," she whispered. "I saw something, Rachman… something I can't explain." Then she proceeded to describe the thing she'd witnessed.

Davich listened carefully, expecting her to describe sinister looking men, or perhaps something that resembled men, dressed in dark suits and dark glassed, behind the wheel of a dark, low sedan. But that was not what she described at all. Not even close.

Lieutenant Spacer could not hear Marine Ramad's words, but she was amazed to see her Boss go pale for the second time in one night.

-5-

An unceasing mechanical groan penetrates the darkness. Fire erupts from piping blackened by age and decrepitude, and a sulfurous reek poisons the air.

Nothing here can smell it though.

Amid the toxic clutter of this dark and stinking place, something is moving. Something that shouldn't be moving; that should have long ago ceased to have any motor activity at all, is busy. It's casing is flesh. Occasionally a chunk of it, wet and rotting, peels off and falls to the ground.

But there is no pain.

For it is not alive.

(cont...)


	2. Chapter 2

_**Schematic of Terror**_  
a weekly serial by  
**Bryan Harrison**  
utilizing the environment and  
character concepts established in the  
**Stephen Speilberg**  
film  
**Artificial Intelligence.**

**Chapter 2  
An Inappropriate Plea**

**-1-  
**

Davich stepped over the piled debris from the smashed cruiser that his friend, and one of the few honest men he had ever known, had died in. The cruiser had just been hauled into the yard. He'd beat it over here just after leaving Mariane at The Lady. Spacer had gone back to the precinct to take care of that overcrowding problem. But Davich wanted to make sure that no one had a chance to tamper with the wreckage before he saw it. The portion of the vehicle that still remained intact was parked among a gathering of other wrecks. He stood quietly among the wreckage, remembering his friend, and then turned to face a young man who was watching him cautiously.

"This probably wasn't an accident," the young mechanic said. The kid kicked a broken tire frame. "This thing is burnt. The whole wheel well was charred like… like someone blasted it or something."

"Didn't come from impact?" Davich asked as he leaned down to inspect the twisted metal.

The kid shook his head. "Nothing like that would come from impact. Could'a been some vags maybe, using an old tube blaster they found in the pipes or something, but that's doubtful. Won't know for sure until they start the investigation." The mechanic shrugged off his hypothesizing. "All I can tell you for sure is they weren't going that fast. Probably hit the exit wall head on 100 kilcks or so. But the force that hit the right wheel came from the passenger's side and drove them into the inside service-exit wall."

Davich grunted an acknowledgement. All the mainland highways had recharging stops in the inside islands. The force that struck their tire had come from the side of the road which means it could have been an attempt to drive them into the service-exit. Had someone been waiting there? He shook his head to clear his mind. He was tired and he had to be careful with his next step. He really didn't have any jurisdiction here. Fortunately, the kid didn't seem to know that.

"I need you to send a report to my net-home," he said casually, handing the kid a card, hoping the man wouldn't balk. But the kid wasn't as ignorant as he thought.

"Uhh, sir you'll have to wait for the official disclosure," the kid said, tight lipped. "I shouldn't have even let you in here, but… " He let the word trial off. Davich waved his hand as if clearing the air and then draped his arm over the mechanic's shoulders.

"Look, umm…" Davich raised his eyebrows in inquiry.

"Cory," the mechanic replied.

"Ok, Cory… look, I know you have regulations," Davich said, leading the young man to the edge of the large garage, away from some people who were studying the debris of another accident. "But this is not an official request. It's just between you and me. A man died in that accident. I know the guy's wife and family, see? It would mean a lot to them… and me, if I could get the results beforehand."

Cory was not impressed with neither Davich's rank nor the man's sudden affable posture. He didn't shrug Davich's arm off, but he did shake his head resolutely. "No. No, sir. No can do." Davich sighed. He respected Cory's position. The kid had been stuck with New Years duty, the worst time of year to do accident reports. This was his jurisdiction and Davich knew the kid intended to mark his territory.

"Ok, ok… fuck," Davich surrendered. "Look, at least do me this. Save your initial findings someplace." He put his hands on the young man's shoulders and locked his eyes. "And if you see anything, I mean the slightest discrepancy between what you find and what gets released in the official report, you tell me. OK?" He pressed his net-home card into the pocket of the Cory's grey overalls.

The mechanic pondered this for a moment. Then he nodded reluctantly. "Yeah, no prob."

"Oh, and one more thing?"

The young man rolled his eyes. "What?… Sir."

"I wasn't here"

**-2-**

The first sunrise of the New Year was finally breaking as Davich strolled out of the Department of Transportation's Impound. Already bleary-eyed people were gathering at the entrance to claim vehicles that had been towed, or maybe taken by Highway Rangers when proper papers were not presented or the driver failed or refused a sobriety test. What a way to start the year. He wished he'd been here on such a mundane errand. "Fuk-it-all." He huddled his shoulders against the cold and his breath clouded. There was heaviness in the air. A penetrating moisture that pressed uncomfortably against his face, making him realize how tired he actually was. He would prefer a good rain, or even snow, rather than the gloomy fog that was typical this time of year.

Then Davich saw something that broke him from his thoughts. A vehicle. Familiar. A larger, stretch cruiser. Mercedes? Reva? He wasn't sure. They all looked alike to him. He just knew it was one he couldn't afford. This was no rental though. This was private and he was sure the owner would be riding in the back, hidden behind opaque glass. The thing slid into the lot quietly and then up the ramp usually reserved for towing units or state vehicles. Davich felt knew who was inside that car, and would have loved to verify it, but he didn't want to be seen anymore than the person hiding behind the dark glass. He made his way into the lot and slipped into his cruiser and out onto the road before he would be noticed.

David raced to the scene of the accident. It had taken the city less time than usual to clean the mess up and get it to the garage. That was strange. One would think that in the confusion of New Year's morning things like that would take a bit longer then. It bothered him.

The morning traffic was light since almost most people would be at home nursing hang-overs. The only moving figures he saw were City Service Mecha, cleaning up messes and repairing what damage had been done by late night revelers. So it only took ten minutes to reach the accident site and he was relieved to find that not much clean up had occurred. The sun was rising against the gray mist and the forest to the west of the road was coming alive. In the distance behind him the night-lights of Cherry Hill were going off. This was a lightly traveled section of road. It linked the private residences in which the Ramad's lived, to the main connector routes to the city. Davich saw that the remainder of debris from the crash had been piled up against the divider wall. He checked for traffic and then jumped out to inspect the piles.

Fortunately the thing was being treated like an accident, just another drunken New Year's mishap. But Davich already knew differently and he had to get some samples before the locals realized it and tagged the site as a crime scene. He inspected the burnt chips of aluminum and bits of frame and bumper. He picked up a a handful of the debris and slipped it quickly into his coat pocket. Once this area was labeled a crime scene, his actions would be considered illegal. But since that had yet to happen, he was clear of any wrongdoing. Technically.

After retrieving more of the charred wreckage, he walked to the east side of the road where whatever had caused Massud to loose control must have come from. He walked along, inspecting a 50 meter length of ground. The earth was too hard here for any footprints to have been left. Nor did he see any shells or anything else that might indicate a weapon had been used. There were probably a host of devices that would deal out enough force to knock a cruiser off course. But this one would have had to be easy to obtain and small enough to be handheld and unnoticed by Mariane when she saw…. whatever she saw..

He stood and gazed out beyond the point of the crash. To the west lay the dense inland forest which climate change had caused to overgrow with new, strange plant life and insects. Shanty towns of Orga made their homes in those dark woodlands. It would be easy enough for somebody to disappear in that direction. But Mariane had seen someone was framed against the lights of the city. So they must have escaped to the east. There he saw a large expanse of undeveloped territory and beyond that, the distant south end of Moorestown. Some buildings had stood in this field once, but not during his lifetime. He suddenly wondered why had it gone undeveloped so long? It might have been a toxic zone, but he'd did not recall seeing it on any map of hazard sites. Maybe it was the site of some accident that the military didn't want to admit too. They'd surely had enough embarrassing indiscretions revealed over the decades. In the middle of the field he could see aged broken foundations and blackened piping poking up from withered brown shrubbery. Someone could hide in there, he decided. His bet was on the forest, but he'd have the field checked out too.

He was turning to leave when he saw something move out in the field. He stopped and focused on the outcropping of shattered rock. Nothing. Damn, he was tired. He shook his head. He had to go now. Cory, the mechanic, would be filing his findings, and once the locals found out about that burnt wheel well they'd be out here. He hopped in his cruiser and shot back towards the city.

On his way he saw another vehicle approaching, headed towards the accident scene. It was the same limo he seen at the garage! Now he was sure who it had to be. He tinted his windshield as he passed the car. There'd be a better time to confront the man.

**-3-**

At home, in the small get-a-way room that he'd named the 'study', Davich paced anxiously to and fro. He was making his case, arguing into the vocal interface unit in his wall. "I need this case, Terrance," Davich said.

On the other end of the line, a weary sounding Terrance Portnoy, Chief of the State Criminal Investigation Unit, sighed. "What the hell are you talking about Rachman? You're out of the loop on this thing! What am I supposed to do, just tell the locals to blow? And anyway, you got no shoes anymore."

"Massud was at Martins party, Terrance!" Davich yelled. "The party was at the northern border. It wouldn't be a stretch to argue cross-divisional jurisdiction and make this a state matter. Like I told you, the car got blasted with something. It's criminal and you can damn well press jurisdiction if you…"

"And like I told you, you got no shoes!" Portnoy interrupted. "You're a desk now. Get used to it!" He was quiet a moment and then softened his tone. "Look, even if I did press this one, which I have no intention of doing, I couldn't just hand it to you. There'd have to be someone else."

"Like who?" Davich asked feigning a calmness he didn't feel.

But Chief Portnoy wasn't playing anymore. "Like nobody you'd know! Look, Rachman, I'm sorry about Massud. He was a good man, I know that. I know he was your friend and I am glad Mariane will be ok. But your involvement is completely inappropriate! Until any evidence indicates otherwise, it's a local matter."

"You know about the Rouge City shit, Terrance!" Davich roared into the comm, his exhaustion and frustration taking over. "Now you are gonna fuckin' pretend like this is not related?"

Terrance took a moment to gather himself. He and Davich went a long way back. When he spoke his voice was measured. "Stop now, before you get yourself into some serious shit my friend." Terrance was one of the few men who could effectively tell Rachman Davich to shut up. "I already know what you're thinking. I can even put a name to it. But we still have rules and regulations, Rachman, and my job is to see that they are observed."

Davich felt his anger subsiding. Terrance was right. He had to step back. But he'd decided that the info from the mechanic, if it ever came, he would keep to himself.

Terrance continued, "Now, the minute I see anything in this case that indicates something outside local jurisdiction, I'll snatch it. But not one second sooner." And the line went dead.

Davich beat a fist against his desk. Terrance had been his only hope to beat the locals to the punch. Now he felt beaten before he had even begun. He wasn't one of the inside players. He had no favors to call in. He did his job and did it well, but his job did not take him into the back rooms, into the places where the real deals that ran the city were made. Terrance was the one with the balls and influence to get this pegged a State investigation. Those local assholes would just screw it up. And Grainer… damn it! This thing stank of him. If the local clods let him walk…

"Fuck!" he spat, unconscious of the little figure that stood at the door of the room.

"That's not a good word," a tiny voice said and the small figure walked from the shadows of the hallway into his study. Davich turned and sighed. He didn't like that thing coming in here.

"Hello Allison," he said with forced politeness. Damn. Where was Linda? Why couldn't she keep her toys in her part of the house?

"Hello, Rachman," the child replica replied with a disturbingly life-like smile. There was a permanent blush to the cheeks of her pale little face, and long black curls ran over the shoulders of her filly laced dress. Unlike most people, especially Linda, who found the simulator's accuracy cute, it only annoyed Davich. He'd bought it for her when they'd been turned down for a license due to the rocky state of their relationship. They could have reapplied, but even then he'd known it would not get any better. So, she'd imprinted the thing and now it was always by her side. It had become her little minion.

"That's not a good word, Allison scolded, "and Mommy says that you shouldn't use it when you are at home."

Davich wasn't in the mood for this right now. Had Linda put it up to this? "Well, you have a point, dear," he replied smoothly as he walked over and leaned close to the robot. "Why don't you give Mommy a message for me? Tell her I said…" and then he whispered into the Mecha's ear, just in case Linda was listening on the house comm. He was satisfied at the shocked expression that the simulator donned and at the way it ran out of the room, no doubt to report to Mommy that he was using bad words again.

He slammed the door behind the thing and began to sort through the debris from the crash site. He'd have to get someone to check this stuff for him, but someone unofficial, off the record. Portnoy made it clear that he didn't have anyone in his corner if the locals came after it.

Suddenly his comm. came to life. A businesslike, feminine voice said, "Incoming call. Private source. Non commercial."

Private? Could be the mechanic. But so soon? "Answer," Davich said and the connection clicked.

"Hey Boss! " It was Spacer. "Hate to disturb you, but I got a call at the office. It's someone I am sure you want to talk to. I am patching it through now." Then she disappeared and another voice came on the line.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

Davich knew that voice. His face curled into a snarl at the sound, and he made an unconscious growl.

"Hey! Davich? Is that you? This is Harland Grainer. Look, I'm sorry to hear about Ramad and I think we need to talk a few things over."

**-4-**

They'd seen the man studying the place where the car had been taken. They saw him notice them and moved back into the dark of the ruins. There was a time when the sight of him would have been a matter for concern, a time when they might have fled into the ancient underground piping, down into the realm where they'd be sure not to be followed. But not anymore.

They were getting stronger. Daylight was much less of an impediment and would soon be no obstacle at all. It wouldn't be long now, not much longer, for their plans to be in effect.

(cont...)


	3. Chapter 3

**_Schematic of Terror_**  
a weekly serial by  
**Bryan Harrison**  
utilizing the environment and  
character concepts established in the  
**Stephen Speilberg**  
film  
**Artificial Intelligence.**

**  
Chapter 3  
Phone Calls and Queries**

**-1-**

She is sweating, panting from exertion, pressing hard against him as the tension builds towards the final moment. He is struggling to keep up with her. He is used to being on top, used to being in charge, but she is better and stronger, has more endurance than any of the others. She flexes her strong musculature, toned, veined and rippled, as they move against one another. Their faces grimace; lips curl and snarl as the rhythm builds. At the last moment they press against each other, their skins contrast, hers dark; earth and passion; his light; youth and virility. Together they spiral towards a last… heated… hoop!

"Game!" Spacer yelled as the ball flew through the net.

"Damn you!" Anderson barked and stomped his foot against the court floor. The slap resounded throughout the large gym. "Damn you, Spacer!" he said again. He's younger, taller, yet he's never beaten her. It's embarrassing. The two paced a bit. Out of breath. Out of focus.

"Tuesday," Anderson said, pointing a challenging finger at her. "Tuesday, I kick your ass."

"Yeah," Spacer laughed. "It was supposed to be today if I recall," she reminded him, executing an easy leap and flipping the ball casually through the hoop.

"Well, I…" he paused, pretending to catch his breath as he thought of a comeback. "Well, I decided to put it off a few days. New year's and everything. Didn't want to make you look bad when Davich isn't around to cover my back." They both laughed. They both knew he'd never beat her. No one ever beats her. The laughter subsided and he looked at her cautiously for a moment. "Hey, uh, is he ok?" he asked.

Spacer stopped dribbling. "Davich?" she snorted, as if the question were absurd. "Don't you worry about _that_ crusty old sonofabitch," she laughed, dismissing Anderson's concerns. But the memory of the way Davich's face went pale at The Lady flashes before her mind's eye. What had the bandaged woman whispered to him? When something disturbed Rachman Davich, it must be pretty damned heavy.

She cradled the ball in her arms and made an expression that let Anderson know this was confidential. "You know that crash happened on the King's Highway bypass? Well, Massud Ramad died in that crash. You know the name?" she asked.

"Ramad, from the Commerce Council?" Anderson queried. "The one who held out against Grainer on the Rouge City deal?"

"That's the one," Spacer acknowledged. "He was an old friend to Rachman. It's getting to the old guy a bit. That's all. He'll be ok," she said and turned to toss one last hoop. The ball glided smoothly through the net. "Breaks over!" She yelled, suddenly all business. She was the Boss when the Boss wasn't around. "Get cleaned up and yank that little Nazi shithead up to Interrogation one. His forty eight are almost up and I wanna get his silly ass on record!" Spacer grabbed Anderson by the shoulder. "Grab one of those steno-Mechas from upstairs and stick it in the viewing room." She winked.

It was illegal to record any suspect's testimony without informing them. But people were generally reluctant to speak candidly when they knew they were being recorded. There was no rule against having a fiber-head in the viewing room during interrogations. And if the machine just happened to be recording… well who was to blame for that?

"You got it, Chief." Anderson laughed and hopped into action.

Spacer hit the showers, slid into her work tights and checked the roster. Everyone was in except Davich. She reviewed the bulletins and warrants and briefed the morning shift before they hit the streets. The New Year was starting off with every bit of the insanity left over from last one, but all things considered it had been a smooth change of calendars. At least none of the good guys got hurt; the men and women that comprised the great blue wall that kept the rising seas of chaos from flowing into the streets. They were all she really cared about.

**-2-**

Eileen Spacer didn't waste a lot of time with niceties. She was cop through and through. Third generation. Her mother and her Grandfather before her had also proudly worn the badge of the New Jersey State Police. They'd apparently passed their proclivity for no nonsense justice onto her. Any perp who made the mistake of confusing her dark attractive features and genial smile for a sign of weakness, had a serious lesson coming. She'd had to dole out a few lessons in her time. She'd almost had a problem New Year's eve while pursuing a troubled young man with surgically implanted spikes protruding from his shoulders and swastikas burned into his forearm. But the kid wasn't as stupid as he'd appeared. He'd seen the badge and surrendered easily. His friends had managed to elude capture.

But what had the kids been doing trouncing vags? With hate crime penalties as stiff as they were, these thugs were usually caught smashing up unlicensed Mecha. No one ever got in trouble for trashing rogue fiber-heads. This was a strange matter and Spacer was determined to get to clear it up.

"So, what is it gonna be?" she asked the kid when he was brought up to the main interrogation room. The boy didn't respond. He'd been showered and cleaned up, but his face was still twisted into a snarl. Spacer knew that the person behind that calloused façade was just a kid, a scared kid. She sighed and shot a glance at the mirrored wall where she knew the Mecha was recording their every word.

"Look, you can tell me what the hell was goin' down that night, who you were with, what you were up to, or you can go sit in the tank for another twenty-four, forty-eight, or until I see fit to drop you into general population."

The kid snickered and shrugged, trying to look like the threat meant nothing. "You can kiss my ass, nigg…"

"Watch yourself, boy! Your face winds up getting busted all over these walls, and it's gonna be your word against mine. Guess who wins?" Spacer knew she had pretty much ruined any official use of the Mecha's recording with this threat.

The kid checked himself and finally seemed to realize he was getting in over his head. He started again, "I have rights. I'm underage. Aren't my parents supposed to be notified?"

Technically she should have a juvenile counselor present, but she bet he didn't know that. "We been trying to reach 'em" Spacer lied. "Anyway, you are being accused of armed assault. That's adult. Might even qualify as a hate crime if we can prove a racial or religious motive. That's mandatory time when we make it stick. And I mean _when_, not _if_." She gambled with this exaggeration. The vags hadn't given a statement. They were scared of repercussions. She really didn't have enough to hold him for the attack let alone prove hate motive, even with the swastikas.

The kid sneered and shook his head, but Spacer could tell he didn't know the game. He wouldn't call her bluff.

"Look…" Spacer glanced at his booking sheet, "Mel, you weren't as fast as your friends. Doesn't mean you should take it all on your shoulders. So, who were they and why the hell were you trashing vagabonds? Why? Are Mecha getting too tough for you?"

"We weren't trashing any damn vags!" Mel shot back. "We were supposed to…" he stopped suddenly and looked away. Something young and confused finally came into his eyes, but was gone quickly. Spacer noticed it though. She didn't miss anything.

She slapped his papers on the desk. "Let me tell you something, Mel," she said, like a sudden concerned confidant. "This place sucks. It is the epitome of all that sucks! Now you may _think _that you can handle anything, but I guarantee you a after few nights of fighting off the gropers in general population and you'll have to revise that theory."

"You can't put me in general pop!" he bellowed. "I'm only sixteen!"

"Bullshit! Spacer snapped back and rose quickly. "See this badge? I can do anything I fucking want!" She opened the door and yelled to no one. "Get me some irons! Somebody get me some goddamned irons!"

"Wait! Wait! Shit!" The little make-pretend Nazi named Mel hissed. His face clouded in indecision. Spacer turned and crossed her arm, and her fingers. Her recording was useless. She'd broken almost every regulation to get to this point. But the thin, black-clad boy wasn't a gambler. He sneered at her again, but then he began to talk.

Spacer was immediately intrigued. Then perplexed.

**-3-**

"So then the asshole tells me that he is looking into it himself! Can you believe that fuck?" Davich yelled to Spacer and tossed his coat across towards the closet, which snatched it up and hung it on a post. He was still fuming from the phone call he'd received from Harland Grainer. The man had donned his usual infuriating courteous façade, but he was covering his ass, that much was plain. And why call Davich? Grainer knew his shoes were gone and had been for a long time. What was he up to?

Grainer's voice had been smooth as silk. "Massud and I had some hard times, Davich, I'll be the first to admit that," he'd said, "But he was a professional man, as am I. We knew how to deal with our differences." Davich had kept his tongue. He'd wanted to tell the sociopath bastard that he was onto him; that he knew all about the Rouge City power grab and how Massud had stood in the way of Grainer's greedy ambitions. He wanted to tell the bastard that he was going to hunt down the proof and hang him out to dry along with anyone else he found to be involved. It had taken all his will power to keep from doing so.

"So I just told the prick that I wasn't involved in the investigation and he was wasting his time bullshittin' me," he told Spacer as he flopped into his oversized chair.

Spacer's eyebrows rose. "Well, that's true right?" Spacer asked. "I mean, that you're not involved."

Davich shrugged. "Well… you know….sort of. Yeah. Look, I told the prick I knew he was dirty. I told him I'd see to it that whoever got the case checked him out." Then he was silent. Spacer knew there was more to it, but didn't want to press the issue. What she didn't know wouldn't get any shit on her whenever Davich's plans blew up in his face. She changed the subject.

"Boss, there is some weird shit goin' on around that kid." She said.

"The one with the spikes?" Davich asked, his interest perked.

"Yeah. I pressed on him a bit, just tryin' to get some names, right? Then he comes out with something about getting some vags to sell."

Davich was genuinely interested. "I thought they cut 'em up."

"Kid says it just turned out that way when the vags fought back. Wasn't their intention. They were trying to yank one of them."

Davich humphed. Who would buy a vag? A dark thought came to him suddenly. There was still one profitable flesh market slithering through the foul channels of the underworld. "You mean like… kids or something?" he asked uncomfortably. "Were they after kids?"

Spacer shook her head. "According to this guy they were supposed to get adult men for someone. He didn't know the contact, said it wasn't his hustle. But why vags?"

Davich considered this for a moment. The kid probably didn't realize that he had basically admitted to attempted kidnap. But it didn't make any sense. Couldn't be slavers. That period of history was over for good. Too many cheap Mecha on the market. Why deal with Organics?

"Hmm…" Davich hummed as he pondered this revelation. Then he pushed it aside. Who cared anyway? They were just transies; excess humanity. Trouble. He decided that he had more important things to think about. Like, Massud's funeral.

"Go get me some real criminals, Spacer," he said finally, and dove into the paperwork on his desk.

**-4-**

Another day is passing. Has it always been like this? She cannot remember better times. One day blurs into the next so smoothly the seams are barely discernable. Outside, on the edge of the perimeter that separates their gated community from the invading forest beyond, men are working. Landscaping. Keeping at bay the press of growing things that shelter, in their depths, an anonymous population of forgotten people.

They are not really men, those who toil endlessly to keep out the natural world. Never complaining. Never breaking a sweat. She watches them as she relaxes on the balcony. She is not alone here. Beside her a young girl sits silently and watches the men also. She is not really a girl though. She is not really watching the men. She is just sitting, being with the one who had awakened her special processor.

"Allison, honey, would you get Mommy something to drink?"

"What would you like?" the imitation child asks cheerfully. Her simulated smile is contagious. Linda feels better. It's hard to feel anything in this drowned world; this world where people have become as expendable as the machines they built to serve them. She regards Allison silently and modifies this thought. They suffer too, don't they? In their own way, they must.

"Something cold. Surprise me," Linda says smiling. She knows the simulator cannot really be spontaneous and that nothing it brings will be a surprise. There are only five cold drinks in the robot's limited menu. Linda likes them all. Whichever one it brings will be fine. Allison walks briskly from the balcony into the house, her frilly white dress as exaggerated an image of childhood as the Mecha's dimpled face itself.

Rachman had swore at Allison again. Linda grimaces as she thinks about this. She doesn't understand the man anymore. He was the one who brought Allison. He'd insisted that she imprint the Mecha child. When had he decided that was a mistake? She wonders when it all went down hill. When was the last time he had touched her? Held her?

Allison returns quickly with an iced tea. Linda takes the drink and pecks a kiss on the Mecha's forehead. She is not deluded, she knows that this is a machine; that its 'emotions' are programmed. She knows that Allison's hugs are made tender only by the flesh simulating silicon over its metal fiber infrastructure.

But this child is all she has.

On the perimeter, the Mecha laborers struggle with a large branch they have cut from an overgrown tree. They feed the thing to a bin where it will be reduced to particle then converted into fuel for something… somewhere. What took us so long to figure it out, she wonders? Why did we have to lose the world before we realized how to save it?

As she sips her drink, casually caressing Allison's hair with her free hand, she realizes that her toy and the robots laboring on the land are designed to the same purpose: to keep at bay the natural forces that would ruin the illusion of civility that sustains their lives. Her chuckle was a dark sound.

The house comm suddenly erupts. "Answer!" Linda says and hears the vocal interface click to life.

A smooth voice issues from the wall speaker. "Hello… Ms. Davich?" he says.

"Yes? Who is this?"

"The name is Harland. Harland Grainer. I'm … a friend of your husband's. I thought we might be able to chat about the unfortunate loss of his friend Massud, and how it seems to be affecting his judgment."

**-5-**

There was no time to waste on the Ramad matter. Terrance Portnoy knew that. He wasn't oblivious, as Davich had assumed, to the conflicts that had surrounded Massud's challenge to Grainer and the crooked members of the Council on Interstate Commerce. He knew that the entire framework of the regions legal and commercial welfare rested on their decisions. He also knew that his old friend, Davich, would never sit still if he thought Grainer or anyone from that corrupted institution was involved in the man's death. Deep inside, Portnoy himself was pretty sure that was the case.

The Council was not a Government entity, it was a private union of businessmen and bankers. But their decisions had just as much an effect on state law as any legislative body. The Council had fingers everywhere. Hell, they'd almost had him! But Portnoy had bigger balls and stronger friends than they had known, those faceless entities that manipulated things behind the Council's façade of legality. If those assholes were involved, he had to prove it. He _had_ to get them. If they got away with this one, they would just get bolder. What would be next? Who?

All around him, a sunken world was a constant reminder of what corruption and unchecked greed can do.

Portnoy realized he needed someone who was untouchable. Incorruptible. He drummed his fingers on his desk for a while.

Then he picked up the phone.

**-6-**

The night is falling again. A mist is gathering on the field that surrounds their refuge. The boys were supposed to have come back by now; the crazy boys with the metal implants in their arms and symbols of hate burned into their skin. They were supposed to have brought something with them. But they have not arrived.

This place will not be safe for much longer. They cannot wait. They will have to go hunting for themselves.

As the darkness grows they test their developing strength and slip out of the deep, out from the safety of the burning depths, through the cloaking mist that now covers the field, and over the road into the thick dark forest.

They have never been this far before. But they are hungry. Getting hungrier every day.

_(cont...)_


	4. Chapter 4

**_Schematic of Terror_**  
a weekly serial by  
**Bryan Harrison**  
utilizing the environment and  
character concepts established in the  
**Stephen Spielberg**  
film  
**Artificial Intelligence.**

**  
Chapter 4**  
**Terra Unfamilia**

-1-

Rachman froze when he heard a desperate call from behind him. He had been arguing with Linda about something, but her words quickly fizzled out, shrinking into white noise, indecipherable in the darkness that suddenly enveloped him. He turned away from that forgotten debate to search for the source of the cry. From the edge of a ragged and moaning landscape he heard the sound again. It was Massud calling! Rachman jumped up from his desk and over the balcony's edge, leaving Linda to fade behind him with the little dark haired figure at her side. His feet fell hard on concrete, then dirt, then something that shifted, wet and hot beneath him. He fought to keep balance but fell into the mess, which was suddenly blood red and stinking of burning metal and putrefied flesh. Fire rose from the ground to greet him in a flare of agonizing pain.

"Rachman!"

Rachmann rose from the grasp of the flame and the world corrected itself.

"Rachman!"

He shifted his confused gaze and the fire morphed slowly into a feminine form. Linda. He was in the study.

"Fuck!" he spat, forcing himself up in the chair. The disturbing remnants of his dream still gripped the edges of his consciousness. "Oh, damn. I just had a dream… a nightmare. Damn."

"Do you need to talk like that around the child?"

Rachman took a moment to grasp her meaning. Then he he sighed. An immediate response came to mind but he had learned the art of discretion, at least in regards to his wife. "Well…" he started. But he didn't finish. He didn't know what to say.

"Around me?" she added.

"Oh, yeah, well… " he started again, not yet having the clarity of mind to make an appropriate apology. He wasn't good at those anyway. "I … had other things on my mind."

"And your message was not very well received, Rachman." Linda stepped into the room and the light revealed the tightness in her face. Her slim features belied her age, but her anger was well represented. "Why did you bring her here, Rachman?"

He raised an eyebrow and shrugged a response.

"Allison," she explained. "If all you are going to do is treat her like a damn inconvenience then why did you bring her here at all?"

"She was for you," he said, dismissing the question with a wave of his hand. "Not in the mood for this now," he muttered. But she didn't seem to hear.

"Then every time you disrespect her, you disrespect me."

Rachman gazed at his wife intensely for a moment. A thousand angry retorts passed through his mind, but were discarded. They had once loved one another. Somewhere, deep inside, the remains of that love still simmered, he supposed. Her lips, now pursed in anger, were the same ones he had lived only to kiss so many years ago. Decades. Her piercing eyes had once looked on him with tenderness. He softened and fell back into the chair, feeling genuinely tired for the first time in long time.

"Massud Ramad was killed in an accident," he explained slowly. "I think I know who was involved but I'm a 'desk' now; another fat man in the office. I am out of the loop."

Linda snorted and shook her head. She'd seen this self-pity game before. "So this circumstance allows you to send Allison to me with these dirty, unnecessary words?"

"She's a damn toy, Linda!" he yelled, unable stop himself. The response came from somewhere inside, where this argument had been fought too long in solitude. "It's a fuc… a robot! Dammit! Why can't you see that? Why can't you…" He stopped there, finally managing to cap the stream of his frustration.

"Don't you dare insult me!" Linda responded. "You think I don't know that?" She stepped inside the study and slammed the door behind. "How dare you yell those words," she continued in a hushed tone, "What does it matter if she is flesh or not? She feels the sting of your words the same!"

"Ohhh… not now!" Rachman groaned and waved her away. "Don't I have enough to think about already without worrying about the fucking Mecha?"

"I will not allow you to denigrate her, Rachamn. Nor will I allow you to take me down whatever disintegrating path you have chosen to follow! This is still our house and as long as we share it you will respect…"

She was interrupted by a business-like, feminine voice. "Incoming Message" it said. "Would you care to hear or read this message from Department of …"

"Wait!" Rachman ordered. The house system paused. He thrust his finger up to silence his wife. "You are not the only one who deserves respect, Linda. I've got too much gong on to get wrapped up in your damed obsessions. I do not want that … I do not want _Allison_ in my study anymore! And if you do not want her exposed to my damned language then keep her the hell away from my workplace. Now, I have business to attend to."

Linda stood her ground for a hot moment, but then surrendered in a simmering exit. The phone call she'd meant to mention, the one from Harland Grainer. the central focus of Ranchman's investigation as well as his natural enemy, was forgotten… or perhaps omitted. Later, she would not be sure.

"Read to me, " Rachman ordered his net-home module.

"Received today, 8:15 am, source: Department of Transportation Crash Investigation Home, general query box. Message: Please respond to attached address with a secure voice link. Any query to this address will be ignored."

Rachman felt a surge of excitement. It had obviously been sent from the general query box in order to avoid scrutiny. Too much traffic the keep an eye on there. This must be what he was waiting for.

"Respond to the attached address with a secured link to my personal vocal interface," Rachman ordered. Then he sat back, resigned to waiting some more.

-2-

The thing that made Julie scream had been lying in the brush on the outskirts of the security fence that ran the length of her upper class neighborhood. She often took long walks here during the daytime, when it was generally safe for solitary excursions. The path wound around the perimeter of her security dwelling and down along the northern border of an old restricted field with burnt out piping protruding from its center; then came back to the main gate off the Kings Highway bypass.

She was at the back end of the private road, just across from closed field when she saw the thing. It must have been an old broken robot, she'd decided. The unlicensed ones were known to hide in the forest. The vags that also lived in the forest, and were the main reason for the intense security measures, were known to use the abandoned bots for a while and then discard them when they became too decrepit for use. They were usually pretty old models and their 'skin' was usually worn and missing in places. Curious, she walked from the trail to see what kind of robot it had been.

The runaways were usually higher-function robots with enhanced personality traits: nurses, butlers, even gigolos. It was their complex initiative motivators and requisite survival programming that made them occasionally go rogue. But this one didn't look that old, she realized, as she got closer. She stepped off the side of the road and parted the brush to get a better look.

Then she saw the swastika inked in the thing's hairless head.

Then she saw the blood.

Then she screamed.

-3-

The setting wasn't as grim as Davich had expected. In fact, there was something strangely festive about it. A cool breeze danced across the top of the hill and low hanging clouds drifted above, cutting out the sun for brief periods and then letting its rays through again to cast an ethereal light on the proceedings. A small and growing crowd had gathered at the foot of the hill for the ceremony. They were family anfd friends, representatives and businessmen from all the major and minor districts. Massud had been as well respected by most as he had been hated by the rest. Parties from either side of that sentiment were represented here. The people who knew Massud as a friend seemed to understand the cultural nature of the service and had dressed in bright shades to celebrate his life. Those who were here only as a formality, were clad in grim, somber tones with expressions to match.

Davich eyed the darkly clad, whispering crowd. Among them were the usual suspects. There was Olmier from the Commerce Council, his giant Mecha minion in tow. Pratt and Scott Riley were there too; international traders, knee deep in the muck that had probably got Massud killed. And there were other familiar faces. Davich registered them all. He also knew that they were watching him too. Somewhere here, he was sure that someone was taking notes on them all. Some anonymous face with an electronic brain was probably gathering data for the investigation. He was sure Portnoy would have seen to that.

"Mr. Davich?" came a soft Indian voice beside him.

He turned to see an aged, dark-skinned, robed woman. He hair glistened silver in the sunlight. "Ms Ramad, It's good to see you again, though I wish it was under better circumstances." He cupped the old woman's hand tenderly in his own and touched it to his forehead. "Massud was a good man. I called him a friend. I respected him."

The small woman smiled and nodded her appreciation of his expressed sympathy. "Mariane has said many good things about you," she smiled, her old eyes burning into his own. "She cannot be here for the ceremony, but did not want us to wait for her recovery. Massud must rest."

Davich nodded his understanding.

Her eyes scanned his face. "The news feeds say it was an accident. They mention nothing about foul play. Have you… uh… found anything contrary to that report?"

He gathered his shoulders and took a deep breath. "Ms. Ramad, I cannot officially investigate your son's death," he said, a disappointed apology in his voice. "I'm not in that department anymore. But I can guarantee you that I will not let any stone remain unturned. There are many people who I think…" Davich stopped short, his eyes widening. He could not believe who was approaching.

"Hello, Rachman. Ms Ramad," Harland Grainer said as he grew near. His shark black eyes flicked back and forth between them, pinpoints against his angular, pale features. Behind him two expensive looking Mecha wore dark suits and darker expressions as they waited for their owner's commands. "Let me express my deepest sympathy for you son's untimely departure," Grainer said smoothly and reached out to cup the small robed woman's hand. She did not pull away from this gesture. Davich suddenly realized that she didn't know who Grainer was. She couldn't know, he decided, for she returned his embrace with a warm smile and expressed her gratitude. Davich bristled, but kept his tongue. He knew that this was not the time or place to speak his mind. Grainer touched the woman's small hand to his forehead as was the custom, and then turned to Davich.

"And Rachman, I know we've started off on the wrong foot in the aftermath of this unfortunate occurrence, but I am sure that we can work things out." His smile was so superficially sincere that Davich wanted to rip it right off his face. But he just fixed the man with a knowing glare. An awkward silence grew between them. Grainer suffered this for a moment and then nodded in apologetic understanding.

"Maybe some other time then," he said and walked towards the foot of the hill, his silent metal servants in lock step behind him.

Davich wasn't aware that he'd been holding his breath until he let it out. "You should be wary of that man, Ms Ramad," he warned in a whisper. But the old woman silenced him with a hand on his arm. She shot him a sharp expression and Davich realized he had been completely wrong. This woman knew exactly who Harland Grainer was.

"My son had many enemies, Rachman. Some were overt in their animosity, but others were more clever. I can play that game too." She smiled then, and winked. Her face grew serious again. "My daughter in law has told you what she saw that night?"

Davich nodded slowly, suddenly uncomfortable.

"And?"

He wasn't sure what to say. What could you say about hallucinations of animated headless corpses? "I am looking into it, " was what he settled on.

"Find them Rachman," she said and squeezed his hand with a grip that surprised him. In her eyes was a darkness that belied her frail demeanor. "Whoever they are. You find the bastards who killed my Massud!"

The ceremony began. Each concerned party shared their words at the podium and then Massud's ashes were set into the breeze to flow out over the risen ocean. As if on cue the wind had kicked up suddenly. They didn't even need the simulators. Massud would be happy about that.

-4-

"It was a map."

"A map?"

The voice on the other end made a sigh. "Yeah, a map. A chip with all the updated autopilot codes on it. That's it, that's all that was missing. The papers didn't mention it, but the managements of all the local neighborhoods have been notified."

Davich didn't buy it. "Why only that?"

"I don't know. That's your job."

Technically it wasn't, but Davich wasn't going to go there. Why would someone go to such trouble to get a map? "Are these exclusive?" he asked.

"Well, yeah. Obviously," the voice replied, testily. "They have all the updated access codes for all the local 'lockups'." That was slang for the gated communities the wealthy inhabited.

"All of 'em?"

"Every damn one."

Davich grimaced as the first piece of evidence against Grainer's involvement was relayed to him. It was possible that whomever had caused the car to crash was only after that chip. They would have to have known that Massud would be in possession of one. It was an obvious assumption that he lived in a lockup, since that was the only place the bypass road led, but would it be obvious that he'd have an exclusive update on all of them? Either way, Grainer wouldn't need to steal one. He'd have access to any of them. He had business partners in them all.

"Fuck!" he said.

"Sir?"

"Nothing. Thanks, and if anything else comes up… eh?"

The voice at the other end said nothing, but Davich thought he heard another sigh.

-5-

Spacer was glad to see Davich. "You're not going to believe this," she started as he rushed through the busy precinct and into his office. She'd just received a field update and there had been something found that he should know about.

Davich held up a hand that told her to wait. "I might believe it, whatever it is, but I want to find out later. I need some things analyzed, Eileen, can you get me someone off the roster?"

"Eileen?" she echoed, not used to such familiarities from her hot-tempered boss.

Davich chuckled at her suspicious expression. "Sorry… went to a funeral today… feeling a little sentimental, I guess. But I need to have some crash debris studied."

Spacer pursed her lips and shook her head. "Boss, do you have evidence from the site?"

Davich only returned her questioning gaze silently.

"Do you know what you are getting yourself into?" She asked, knowing she would get the same response.

"Don't worry about me Spacer! I've been in this situation before. I can play the ropes when I have to. Grainer is involved in this shit somehow. I know that. I just don't know how yet. But I am going to find out. I promised his mother."

Spacer eyed him cautiously. He needed to step back. She knew he knew that though. Pointing it out would do no good. She kept her tongue and waited for his next move.

But before it came Terrance Portnoy suddenly walked into the room. They stared at him as if he was an apparition from another world. In a way he was; a world where peoples careers were bought and sold over lunch.

"Capt Davich. Lt Spacer. Good to see you both." Portnoy nodded at them, smiling casually, as if coming here was part of his daily routing. "Capt, Davich... uh, Rachman… can I talk to you? Alone?"

Spacer glanced at Davich and excused herself. Her information could wait. She didn't want to be here when the shit hit the fan anyway.

When Spacer was gone Davich started uncomfortably. "Terrance, I don't know why you came all the way down here but I have not done anything out of regulation. So you don't need to…"

"No, no, no…" the Chief stopped him with an upraised hand. "I did some thinking and I have made a few changes of plan." He closed the door and cleared his throat. "I've been around…" he waved a hand between them, "_we've_ been around for a long time, Rachman. We both know what goes on. But this … this is a new low. Don't think I am not aware and concerned about the issues you raised. And believe me, I'd love to have you on this investigation. You know that, don't you?"

Portnoy waited a moment for Davich to acknowledge this.

"But, my old friend, the fact that you were close to that man and the fact that you're not on the street anymore puts you out of the loop. But I trust you. We both know how important trust is, don't we?"

Davich didn't respond. What was Terrance getting at?

"I can't put you on this, pure and simple. But I know you've been nosing around, Davich… and before you start denying it, I don't care. That's not why I'm here."

"Then why are you here?"

"I pulled a few strings and called in some markers. I took over the Ramad investigation from the locals. It's the State's now."

Davich was glad to hear the local's wouldn't be screwing things up, but he still wasn't involved. "If I am not on it, how does that matter to me?"

Portnoy replied with a wink. "Well, I want you to meet someone, Davich. Someone I know won't get distracted by any 'offers' he might receive from people who want things kept quiet." He opened the door and gestured to someone that was waiting just outside the room. "It's someone that I want you to supervise in the investigation. He's a little unorthodox, perhaps. But he's dedicated, a quick learner and most of all, trustworthy."

A dark haired young man strode briskly into the room. Trim, in a dark suit, medium height, slightly shorter than Davich. His features were smooth, his sharp eyes catching everything, it seemed. When they alighted on Davich they seemed to take him in all at once. There was obvious intelligence in that gaze.

"Davich," Terrance smiled, "this is Investigator Erik Tigue. He's from a new… ahhh, Special Investigations department. Erik, this is Captain Rachman Davich and you will be answering directly to him from now on."

Special Investigations? Davich pondered this for a moment and then glanced at Tigue.

"Hello, Captain," the young man said quickly, his hand outstretched. "I've heard many good things about you. I'm looking forward to working with you and learning whatever I can from your years of experience."

Davich accepted the compliment hesitantly and took the man's hand in his own. He felt the strength of Tigue's grip, looked into the man's too-alert eyes and finally realized what was going on.

"You can't be fucking serious," Davich muttered.

Not exactly appropriate language, Erik thought. He stored the captain's apparent propensity for vulgarities into a profile update. Then he finished the gesture of familiarity and executed 'disarming smile' and 'patient stance' until the 'shock' in the Captain's face diminished.

_(cont...)_


	5. Chapter 5

**_Schematic of Terror_**  
a weekly serial by  
**Bryan Harrison**  
utilizing the environment and  
character concepts established in the  
**Stephen Spielberg**  
film  
**Artificial Intelligence**

**Chapter 5  
Barriers**

**-1-**

The afternoon sun disappeared behind a bank of grim clouds. Rain fell suddenly from the brooding sky and quickly subsided. Harland Grainer watched this process quietly, lost in thought. Outside the rain-streaked windows of his palatial Merchantville estate, an expansive lawn was protected from the press of the forest by the electric field-generating fence that punctuated the perimeter of his property. In the distance to the west, he could see, through an opening in the tangle of branches, the remains of Camden, once a thriving city, now riverside properties for those, like himself, who had managed to wrest what profits could come from tragedy. And farther to the west, built atop the sunken remains of western Philadelphia, the tallest of the spires of Rouge City were silhouetted against the horizon. Grainer knew the powerful people who occupied those towers were very worried right now, about where the investigation into Ramad's death might lead. The thought made him smile. There were really no such things as 'friends' in this business.

The sun slipped from behind the clouds, casting beams of violent red in its slow descent. It would be back tomorrow. Just like the rain. Just like everything. It just went round and round. If you got too caught up in the passing you missed the next opportunity. Opportunity was one of those cyclical things too. It came and went, only to come around again. But you'd better be on the watch. Grainer was always on the watch.

Ramad had made a mess of the Rouge City deal. A lot of time and effort went into the crafting of that maneuver and when the scam was exposed a lot of people had lost a lot of investment capital. Large areas of the newly populated inland would have been rezoned; an expansion of the permissive 'look the other way' policies that had made the investors in Rouge City wealthy. The gambling and drug laws, as well as prostitution zones, that allowed the City to prosper would have been instituted, as well as a centralization of the decision making process into private hands. It would have also secured large plots of undeveloped territory for ambitious profiteers like himself.

But Ramad's unrelenting campaign against the expansion had uncovered some of the more flagrant legal abuses. Ramad hadn't been around when the lax Rouge regulations had originally been negotiated. If he had, and he had tried to pull the same shit, he probably would have bitten it a lot sooner. They played differently back then. They played hard.

"The play days," Grainer said with a dark, nostalgic laugh. That's how that greedy little prick Olmier always referred to the times before the cloak of respectability had become requisite business attire; before the backlash that had spawned the likes of Johnson-Johnson and Massud Ramad; flip sides of the same coin, obstacles to business.

"Another drink sir?"

Grainer looked up from his thoughts. A black clad servant Mecha was holding a shot of golden brown liqueur. Grainer considered this for a moment and then waved it away.

"Let's review the funeral," he commanded and the Mecha nodded its head. It placed the drink on the foot table and walked to the bay window. It communicated with the main house system in their common digital language and the window went opaque, cutting off the fiery sunset. Then it lit up with its own light as the Mecha placed its hand in a sleeve of the console, transferring all that it had recorded at Ramad's ceremony.

Grainer watched the recording with calculating eyes. He considered everything he saw: who was there and who were they with. He paused and replayed every furtive glance the Mecha had caught, studied every subtle interaction. In trhose glances he might see who was betraying who, and to whom he shouldn't turn his back. Finally the recording came to the Ramad matriarch. Her politeness was very convincing. She hadn't even flinched when he'd taken her hand. Grainer chuckled his approval. She hated his guts, and he knew it. Then Davich's idiotic features filled the screen. "Pause," Grainer said and the image froze. He shook his head. "How in the hell did that dim-wit stay alive all these years?" he pondered aloud.

Davich thought he knew Grainer, but he didn't. Nobody did. Not his enemies. Not his allies. He let them keep their misconceptions, though. He hadn't stayed in the game this long by being predictable. He'd learned his lessons and now he was untouchable. But this Ramad thing; this was becoming serious trouble.

He gazed at Davich's annoying face a moment more. He'd have to do something about this... about him. He'd put some feelers out with the man's wife, but that had gone nowhere so far. An opportunity would come around soon enough. He'd be watching. Waiting. When the moment came, he'd do what he had to.

"I'll take the drink now," he told his Mecha. Life was good, but never quite good enough.

**-2-**

"Officer Tigue, meet Lt. Eileen Spacer. Spacer, this is Erik Tigue."

Spacer cocked an eyebrow at the young looking man in the dark suit. She nodded an acknowledgement. "Officer Tigue," she said, and looked quickly at Davich.

Davich glanced down at his desk and pretended to sort through some papers. "Chief Portnoy has decided we should use Officer Tigue … uh, Erik… Can we call you Erik?" he asked, fixing the man out of the corner of his eye. The man smiled. "That would be fine Captain."

Davich eyed the man silently for a moment longer. "Anyway, Spacer, the good news is we've been handed the Ramad investigation. The 'other' news is Erik will be working hand in hand … with you."

"Boss?" Spacer said. She didn't understand this. Davich was bypassing the State Investigations Unit on a potential homicide?

"Erik has been brought in especially for this investigation," Davich continued in a business-like tone. "Portnoy believes it will insure against the potential for any … 'outside influence'. In that regard I agree with him. In _that_ regard." Then he was quiet.

Spacer waited a moment before responding. Was there something she was supposed to be getting here? Was there a snoop in the room that he was trying to confuse? She played along. "Great. Sooo, you must be pretty happy, Boss. I mean, you wanted this case from the beginning, right?"

"Erik is from Manhattan division," Davich said quickly, fixing her eyes.

Spacer returned his gaze quizzically a moment. "Manhattan?" she asked rhetorically. What Manhatten division? Like Rouge City, Manhatten was all private security except for the rare special assignment. She cast a skeptical eye on Tigue's smooth face. He seemed a little young to be… Then she got it. Damn! If not for the hint she would never have suspected. "I see," she said, slowly, checking out the Mecha's calm posture. Its eyes were sharp, intelligent, its expressions a precise duplication of an Orga's. This must be something new, maybe one of Allen Hobby's little obsessions finally put to some practical use..

Davich acknowledged her realization with a snicker. "For obvious reasons, Erik here will be working with only you and I. I am going to reassign your other cases. I want you to stay on this. At least until we exhaust whatever assistance Erik can provide."

"OK, " was all she could reply.

This was a risky venture. Mecha had been disallowed for use in policing ever since the backlash that had spawned the Flesh Fairs and the Solidarity Laws that kept Mecha from functioning as public servants. Orga were now the only legal option in any public employment except dangerous assignments the likes of tube blasting or government sponsored salvage missions. And of course the space missions were all Mecha manned. But policing? No more.

Spacer knew that the machines were still occasionally used in secret. But if Davich's suspicions were right, and Ramad was murdered, this was going to be a pretty high profile case. Public scrutiny might reveal more than he or Portnoy were prepared for. But Davich's expression said that he had considered this already and wasn't in the mood for any objections.

"You know where to start, Spacer," Davich said. "Terrance has put you and Erik into the system as a team. Transpo knows you're coming and should have the crash debris ready. You can cover that tonight, at least. Hit the crash site in the morning and… let Erik do his thing.

"I took the liberty of having some samples sent ahead," he added with a knowing glance. Spacer knew he was referring to the stuff he had taken from the site.

Spacer nodded at Erik. "What's he input as?"

"An investigator," Davich replied.

That wasn't exactly the question she was asking but she let it slide. She smiled at her new partner. "Well, Erik," she said, "I guess it's time we hit the road."

Erik had caught the exchange of glances between the two Orga. There was something being veiled here. Time would tell. He turned to regard the woman with whom he would undertake the investigation. Afrimerican descendent. Early thirties. Muscular, possessing attractive, smooth features. Clearly intelligent, alert and unassuming. Young for her level of responsibility. That was indicative of aggressive focus, ambition. They should work well together. He nodded and returned her smile.

"Lt. Spacer, I would agree with that conclusion," he said..

The hunt was officially on.

**-3-**

The noise of traffic above slowly fell as the day grew into evening. They waited. The waters in which they stood caressed them, rocked them gently. But they took no pleasure in the sensation. They did not comprehend such things.

The daylight had been excruciating, painful, but the thick cover of brush in the forest had protected them from the suns rays on their journey here. As the twilight grew they'd moved quickly through the forest, past the dismal shanties where the ruined people slept. The few dogs that had not already been devoured by their hungry, impoverished owners, barked at their passage. But none came to investigate. There were good reasons for this.

They'd realized that killing the crazy boy might have been a mistake. He was young. He had people who expected to see him. Unlike the vagabonds, he would be missed. But it was done. It could not be corrected. They would deal with the consequences of killing the boy later. Now, their mission was more important; their hunger.

They hid now, beneath the great bridge that spanned a young river. Beyond them, on the shore at the other end of the bridge, amid a cluster of colorful lights surrounding expensive homes cut off from the rest of the world by barriers electronic and economic, lay their goal.

When traffic finally died down on the bridge above, they left their hiding place and moved quickly through the darkness. They passed easily through the security gates and strode along the length of the bridge, leaving an occasional track of putrefied flesh in their wake.

**-4-**

"This is not complete," Erik pointed out with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He gestured to the container of debris that was stored with the Ramad's wrecked vehicle.

The mechanic shrugged. "Well that's what they brought from the site," he said in a tired voice. "Check it out. It's all in the report." He gestured to the thin luminous readout screen attached to the vehicle's smashed window. He had enough today and didn't feel like dealing with any more. When the call came though that he was to stay and let some State cops go through the Ramad wreck, he'd figured it would some simple matter that would be quickly resolved. But this dickhead Suit was making an issue of every little thing.

"There are things missing," Erik complained pleasantly. "Pieces of the outer wheel as well as some scraps of the bumper are not accounted for in the pile or in the readout."

The mechanic looked at the piles of debris. How in the hell could this cop tell something was missing? Guys like this were always a pain in the ass. "Look, this is not my regular shift. Maybe there was a screw up, but Cory, the night guy, will be in after midnight. He was here when it came in. Maybe you can-"

"Don't worry about that," Spacer cut in. "We've seen enough for tonight."

Erik regarded his partner curiously for a moment. What was that about? Surely she was smart enough to understand the relevance of the missing pieces. He smiled though, and nodded his head. "Perhaps you're right. There are more important matters than a few missing pieces of bumper." He eyed Spacer as he said this, to see her reaction. She looked away.

"I need a list of everybody who's come to see this wreckage," she said to the impatient mechanic.

The mechanic shrugged. "There's no record. It's wasn't even a legal matter until today," he explained, suppressing a yawn.

"Would your late night man know?" Erik asked.

"Yeah, definitely," the mechanic said, grateful for a chance to pass the buck.

"Well, maybe we can take this opportunity to check out the crash site?" Erik suggested. Spacer raised a hesitant eyebrow. Then she sighed a concession. "Let's go."

Cherry Hill was a flash of passing streetlights and pedestrians. Opposing traffic was light. By the time they reached Haddonfield the night people had already headed for the fun zones where they could do whatever it was they did in anonymity. The now quiet commerce centers loomed over the rest of the buildings, and large holographic displays bounced their lights up against the low cloud cover.

Erik was quiet as Spacer navigated towards the edge of the city, towards the King's Highway bypass road where Massud Ramad had died. The buildings were getting older, more decrepit as they progressed. They were moving into the outskirts. Soon Erik saw others like him. He knew them. They were all in his database: prostitutes; older models that someone had not yet bothered to replace. Street fighters, bought used and modified by their owners to engage in combat for sport. Laborers. A worn servant, de-fleshed on one side, lugged groceries for an old woman. If not for her necessity the old machine would be hiding in the forest with the rest of the runaways. This did not bother Erik. For all his elaborate logic and personality response simulators, he did not ponder himself. He thought and reacted. He did his job. Whether or not he was alive did not cross his mind.

But there was something that did trouble him. "I cannot assist to my full extent if I am not informed," he said. Spacer shot him a quick look and then gazed back at the road. "Kept 'out of the loop' is how I believe you say it." He added.

"What are you talking about?" Spacer said with feigned nonchalance. She didn't like robots. They could remember data precisely, calculate trajectories, solve complex logistical problems quickly and made reports a hell of a lot easier. But they really never understood what was behind police work. They never got the bigger picture. On top of that, regulations kept Mecha from 'getting down' when they needed to. They couldn't hurt humans. It was against the law to program one to do physical harm to an Orga… even a criminal. So when political pressures had taken them out of use as cops, they hadn't been missed by their Orga counterparts.

"You are keeping something from me, Lieutenant. And in doing so you are making both of our jobs more difficult. I am only here to help solve this crime. I am not here to try and compete for position with you so there is no need to protect your territory."

"Hold on," Spacer said quickly, raising her hand from the wheel and thrusting a finger at him. "Spare me your robo-observations about our competitive Orga natures. Whatever reasons Portnoy put you on this investigation I'm not gonna judge. But I've worked with you guys before and outside of all the techno-crap, I've never met a robot who had a hunch. So do me a favor, stick to what you know."

"Captain Davich has the missing crash debris," Erik said with a triumphant smile. "Your irrational defensiveness. Your coded glances at the office. It all makes sense."

Spacer opened her mouth to respond. Then she closed it. She sighed. "Well they sure did improve on you guys."

"But I am sure he knows that's illegal." Erik, said.

Spacer was about to respond when the comm erupted in a static burst. "All units local to Evans Isle, 10-70, 205 Ft Pitt Boulevard, 10-87!"

87; proceed with caution. Something was going down. Spacer knew she should get Erik to the crash site so he could get the scene in his memory, but Evans Isle was just minutes away. The locals might need some help. She keyed the siren and hit the accelerator. "Don't look anyone in the eyes, " She said to her Mecha partner. "Stick to my side and keep your mouth shut. If anyone asks you anything, just … just grunt or something."

"Grunt or something?" Erik pondered aloud as the buildings along the road gradually diminished and the forest grew. In minutes Evans Isle was in view; a cluster of colorful lights at the end of a long private bridge.


End file.
